


you’ve got your finger on the trigger but your trigger finger’s mine

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Brief description of slapping, Choking, Exhibitionism Kink, Hair Pulling, Light Masochism, Love Bites, M/M, Office Sex, Rutting, Tight Spaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: Hamilton’s grip at Burr’s neck is exquisite.





	you’ve got your finger on the trigger but your trigger finger’s mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitfor_it](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfor_it/gifts).



> self indulgence again lads  
> i have pretty intense writers block rn, forgive me

They’re shuffled together, breath hot and touches electric inside the cramped space of the closet.

Finding a place alone in a busy office such as this took careful planning. And patience. Patience the two of them should have had, but always seemed to lose when it concerned the other. 

Burr leans close, presses his lips to the junction between shoulder and neck, leaves a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses up Hamilton’s neck. Savoured the wracking of the other man’s frame at the act, the gasping moan and staggering of hips proving molten lava down his spine.

There’s not enough room for them to shake the entirely of clothes off, so they unbutton layers, settle for roving hands and kisses. It wasn’t perfect, and maybe Hamilton’s hand was a little dry at first, too excited to entertain all the possibilities, but once Burr tells him, hushed, he licks the palm of his hand in an exaggerated motion that could brush the walls keeping them in privacy before settling it at Burr’s crotch again which does something wholly different than he’d been expecting and they discovered just how sensitive Hamilton’s throat actually was as Burr gripped the man’s head to the side, those dark strands so inviting. Hamilton presses himself into Burr’s thigh and whines, high and needy and begging for more as Burr leaves as many marks as he can as proof of their encounter. 

The office knew Hamilton was... adventurous, and they knew Burr was a little too possessive. No one would question the mottled perfection of Hamilton’s skin, even if he bragged and tried so hard to drag all eyes to it. 

Nevertheless, they try to rut against each other quietly, and hope no one can hear the rocking. Old wood is unreliable, but the adrenaline in the thought of exposure seems to jolt a few more volts of electricity into Hamilton’s brain.

Hamilton’s brow does a thing when he’s about to make a considerable amount of noise, and Burr can see it now, drawing together tight, eyes lolling. A hissed curse, breathy and light, and Burr pulls up from his masterpiece at Hamilton’s unbuttoned collar to kiss him on the lips. He infiltrates the space that is purely Hamilton, licks and sucks and swallows, eyes closed but mind intimately knowing the dishevelled wreck the two of them had become. A gasping shudder, and Burr leans back as far as he is able in the small space, to prove himself right. 

Hamilton is a true work of art, hair mussed, lips bright pink, pupils blown wide and rolling his hips with these content little sighs, breathless shudders and praises.

And Burr reciprocates in kind. He never did that before Hamilton, he knows. Silence made the few moments longer, made each stunted moan, wet friction and whine all the more pronounced. But Hamilton does something even better. He makes each encounter a time to be remembered. Not one had been the same, yet Burr found himself seeking out the other again and again, craving the familiarity that couldn’t be beat.

There’s something missing. He utters this, and there is a shifting.

Hamilton’s grip at Burr’s neck is exquisite.

He swallows, feels the restriction at it and makes a wordless sound, grinds harder. Hamilton is all too happy to grind with him, voice rising and falling as they get further along. It’s crude, something more fitting for his boarding school days where they didn’t know sex could even be done between men, than two fully grown, adjusted adults.

Burr pulls Hamilton close enough to whisper something particularly vulgar into his ear. His hands are steady at his shoulders, holding Hamilton in his lap even as he shudders.

There’s a little give in the frame of the closet, and he distantly hopes the thing will hold long enough for them to finish. 

It’s his turn to control the pace, and he takes a moment to press his hips and roll, pausing a moment to breathe deeply, hum near the shell of Hamilton’s ear and tell him just how good of a slut he was being, just for him.

Hamilton takes a sudden, ragged breath, as though Burr had struck him across the face rather than told him exactly what he needed to hear. Both of them liked that, actually. If only they had the space for that now... He’d love to see the pink flush that would rise under the skin of his lover’s cheek, the widened and glazed eyes, the parted mouth and completely taken sound of ecstasy that always came with entertaining Hamilton’s casual masochism.

Another time. 

Hamilton’s hand loosens around his neck when he comes, a few satisfied cries later and yet another rapidly noticeable mark made with care into the man’s neck. His muscles are relaxed now, contrast to the high stress, vibrating mass that he was in literally any other situation.

Yes, yes, yes, he sighs, dreamily, eyes distant. 

Burr follows a little later, Hamilton whining again in his ear and, tightening that delicious grip with both hands, robs Burr of any sense. He flinches up, chasing the feeling as his lungs empty. Hamilton kisses him now. Burr’s eyes widen in mild panic at first, but the amused look on his lover’s face as he leans back, stays on his mind; for now, he lets himself gasp and searches vainly to catch his breath. 

Hamilton thanks Burr, purrs out a thank you sir, and, because he’s a little shit, doesn’t close the door once he leaves. Burr shuts it hurriedly, tries to breathe evenly. Wonders how he’s going to make it back to his desk, or the train back home, with his boxers this sticky, trousers so obviously wet.

They’d, uh, discuss this again when they got home.


End file.
